Saturday, September 20, 2014

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Sea-Map
Hilda Morley
Taste of salt on my fingers,
that’s how
I like it:
the line of sea rising
above the dark-green pine,
the sea meeting
the horizon,
so always the eyes are lifted higher,
the pulse buoyed upward
with them
So it
should be for us all—
to belong to
whatever moves us outward into
the wideness, for journeying,
tales of
distant places,
treasures piled
to fill our smiling,
for us to know of
along the travelled coastline,
the mountains
we can climb to,
each port,
each harbor
another window to wash our faces in,
pull us
forward
& made for us, made for
all of us,
as the birds know, who
fly the continents, the oceans
for their secret reasons,
a map of the earth
written inside their bodies,
marked
under their breastbones:
a continuance
of the now most fragile,
always travelled
patiently enduring world

Friday, September 12, 2014

each flawed and aching tendoneach depraved and rancid meat saceach pustule, each boil, each canker, each cancereach flower that rotterseach tree that mourns rootseach insect ground blindly into groundeach each eachuseach useach ennui each terrible happening and terrible consequenceeach terror and capitulationeach tremor and corporeal lamentationeacheach thing blessed but taintedeach thing reviled, anathema each absence of answereach absence of power each presence of question each muscular thwartage each muscular throeeach trashing in, thrashing on and thrashing up against each damned thrashing